Miss Gasybeans...

...let's have some encouragement for Miss Gasybeans, who has become very busy and doesn't have much time to devote to her writing. I'm sure we can all wish her a few moments of peace here and there to get her thoughts collected and recorded.

Plus, I happen to know that she has been writing. But not sharing. Ahemahemahem.

A Day for Boots

Wow, I'm so sorry. It's been aaaaaaages since we posted anything here. To be honest, I'm not sure if we forgot or are just extremely slack. Hehe. But, anyway, here's a little something, just for funsies!

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I love the fall. I love boots and big sweaters and snuggling down to read with ten blankets and the cat. I like putting my cold feet on my husband’s back and making him yelp; I like watching the fog burn off in the mornings. I like kicking up showers of colorful leaves, and smelling other people’s bonfires.

Fall in my home country means all of those things. Fall in my adopted country means gardening and beach visits and eating outside. It means suntans and flip-flops (jandels to the locals) and sundresses. I suppose I could adjust my worldview and call a southern Fall Spring, but that just seems contrary. I’m of the opinion that October is Fall.

My husband likes to tease that it just isn’t spring until I bring out my fur-lined boots and his old sweatshirt that I stole when we first met. He finds my refusal to adjust amusing. I find his amusement amusing, so we get along just fine (cold feet aside). He’s a southern boy, however, and doesn’t understand my fascination with the changing seasons.

Oh well. I don’t understand his fascination with bikes and other things that go fast.

My daughter is an interesting combination of us both: she dislikes change, preferring summer to fall and a moderate speed to racing along the highway at 90 kilometers an hour. Her father tries repeatedly to interest her in cycling; I think he’s transferred all the hopes he had for me. As I age I become more like my mother: I prefer to take my time.

This fall I’m pregnant again. Emilie was born in September; her brother will be born in March. Somehow I ended up with equinox children, which amuses me as I was a summer baby. Jordan has already bought his son a bike (hope does spring eternal). I’ve begun another baby book, in aquamarine and olive instead of Emilie’s peach and rose. I work on it when I have free time, usually before my family rises. My sister complains that now she’ll have to remember which Jordan is which; we’re naming him after my husband. It’s a family tradition, of sorts. (Although my grandmother claimed until she died that my father was named after a beloved childhood pet.)

Gian helps me write and arrange and glue. He likes to chase the ribbons into corners of the room, or lie directly in the middle of what I’m working on and ignore me. I didn’t expect him to adjust to our life here, but he took to Emilie and he tolerates Jordan’s two cats, Mauss and Ace. I can’t count the number of times I’ve gone in to wake our daughter from her nap and found the two of them curled against one another in the crib, snoring away.

It’s going to be a beautiful day. My aching back meant I rose early. Jordan is already out, riding along the country roads and keeping himself sane. I reach for my battered metal water bottle and consider our options for breakfast. Emilie is a voracious eater; Jordan Jr. gives me gas and an even pickier palate. Gian has found a spider; he has a distinct rumbly purr that means he’s hunting. I watch the sun rise over the hill and rub my stomach.

It might be a day for boots after all…

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I hope you likey. :)

WolfGrrl

Gian

I am a cat. Not a kitty, not a house-pet, but a cat. I live with my human, a female named Piper, and The Dog. Piper calls me Gian. I consider myself lucky to have escaped Fluffy or Mittens.

We live in a small yellow house in the trees. I like the house, and I like Piper. She is a good human because she worries just the right amount. My water is always fresh (not that I don’t drink from The Dog’s bowl anyway – it’s amusing) and my food is better than the usual human pellets. Piper recognizes that cats have more refined palettes than dogs.

I also like Piper’s male, Jordan. He doesn’t live with us; he lives far away in a different house with different cats. He visits once or twice a year, and I remember him because he doesn’t mind when I sleep on the table. Piper always sighs and puts me on my tower. She’s picky about her food, my human. Her male is less picky. He lets me sniff his plate when he finishes eating, and sometimes forgets to rinse out his cereal bowl. I have a fondness for raisin bran and milk. I also like sandwich crusts and breaded shrimp.

Piper is a writer. She and Jordan argue about it sometimes, because she doesn’t make a lot of money and he is still in School. I understand that money means food, but beyond that their arguments are boring. Piper doesn’t mind when I sleep on her desk while she writes; the sound of her tapping lulls me. I am a champion sleeper, except at night. There’s less light to hurt my eyes at night, and I hunt The Dog and the curtains and my mouse. If Piper wasn’t so clean we might have live mice to hunt.

I enjoy the night. I have a small plastic door that lets me come and go as I choose, and I often sit on the porch and watch the visitors in our yard. We have raccoons, which are fastidious but not very polite; owls, who like to pounce almost as much as I do; and deer. Piper hates deer, but she always makes sure the birdbaths are filled before she goes to sleep. If she would let me patrol the garden instead of keeping me on the porch, I would make sure the deer didn’t eat her delphiniums.

Tonight is the last night of Jordan’s summer visit. Piper was distracted during dinner, and only filled my bowl halfway. I decided not to clean her hair while she read as I usually do, but she and Jordan went to bed early and shut the door. Even The Dog wasn’t allowed in.

It is cool tonight. I sit on the porch table and watch the stars shine through the tree branches. The wind smells extra fresh; I can scent the rabbit family sleeping in their burrow under the rhododendron and the owl sitting in the tree above them. The wind smells so good that it hardly seems worth enjoying from a wood and screen box. I keep my claws sharp on the underside of the futon, and on my tower. It takes a breath to cut a neat hole in the screen and I’m free.

The garden is full of shadows and mystery – my favorite. Piper is a good human, but I’m meant for more than a cushy, dry-food lifestyle. I want mouse tonight. I want to challenge myself and catch a thrill.

I find a mouse trail easily enough. Holding my weight in my shoulders I follow it through the dry grass and leaf litter. Piper dislikes outside work and tends to dump her old yard waste into the woods. Balanced on a fallen branch, I listen with my mouth as well as my ears. I can feel a mouse heartbeat fluttering in my throat. My eyes narrow and I slow my own heartbeat. My first kill will be perfect. I have practiced enough times, on my fake mouse and in my dreams. I am a wild cat, a silent and efficient hunter. The mouse doesn’t stand a chance.

I am full of pellets, but I eat some anyway, the way Piper sometimes has a second helping of cake. I bury the rest, for my next visit to the woods. The moon has almost set. Time means little to me (I am a cat, after all), but I do like to keep my routine. Piper will need me today after Jordan leaves. She always smells like bleach and overcooked peas after Jordan leaves. I think it is the smell of sadness.

When I return to the porch I get a surprise: Piper is up and sitting in a chair. I meow a question as I ease back inside and sit down to lick my ruffled fur. She tugs her old grey sweatshirt closer and folds her body around the cup in her hands.

“I miss him already, Gian,” she says in a voice too small for her body. She doesn’t smell like peas yet and there is only the faintest whiff of bleach. But I know my job, and really, I enjoy it (although not the same way The Dog does). I jump onto the table and she puts her cup down and lifts me into her lap. “You’re always here for me. My sweet boy.” Her fingers find the spot under my chin that makes me shut my eyes and purr. Piper is a good human. She knows where cats like to be rubbed. I think sometimes, when I see Jordan rub her, that she is part cat.

She doesn’t stay long with me; only long enough for the bleach smell to fade and her usual twilight smell to return. Carrying me over her shoulder, my head under her ear, she hums under her breath as we go upstairs. I am allowed to sleep in the bed with her when Jordan isn’t here; when he is, I sleep in the chair. The Dog is jealous because he has to sleep in the hall. I give him a smug blink over Piper’s shoulder as she shuts the door.

I don’t sleep as I watch Piper curl up next to Jordan. I am the watch cat in moments like these; Piper depends on me to keep her and her male safe. I sit with my front paws folded under my chin and survey the room, noting every shadow and breath of air. Piper looks very small next to her male.

I wonder what they dream of. Not mice, but maybe the mouse-equivalent for humans. Wondering about it and keeping guard occupy me until sunrise. Jordan wakes first (he slept through the night) and looks at Piper for a long time. Then he looks at me.

“Keep an eye on her, ok Gian?” I lift my head and blink at him; slowly because he is a bit dim for not realizing I do so without being asked. He relaxes back down next to Piper and I cross my paws, close my eyes, and calculate the time until I can next visit the garden and the woods and the wild.

FINIS

Within

James watched as the young boy plopped his tiny, round body on the soft, green grass. A smile crept onto his face as the fair skinned, blonde haired, blue-eyed five year old began to bounce up and down on his bottom like any other kid high on sugar would. Maybe he shouldn’t have bought him ice cream today. His brown “paperboy” hat, plaid shirt, and brown trousers made him all the more adorable and James couldn’t help but to let out a small chuckle. This kid was growing on him.

The little boy turned his head to James with a large grin on his face as he patted the area of grass beside him. Even his cerulean blue eyes were smiling, laughing almost. James sat down beside him, his own blue eyes smiling as well. He hoped that he could always smile like this.

“James,” said the young boy, “Why do people lie?”

Taken aback, James eyes began to look at the little boy with wonder. Why was such a wise question coming out of a five year old’s mouth? The little boy’s face read no emotion as his eyes stared blankly to the couple in front of them.

“Why do you ask such a question?”
“Because, everybody lies to me. Always. I am little, but I still know. I know what they say. I know what they mean. I don’t like it. Why do they lie to me? Why do mom and dad lie to me?” He asked in a tone full of a child’s innate curiosity and innocent rage.

James was stuck. He too began to stare at the couple in front of them. The woman had light, chestnut brown hair and blue eyes with skin so fair, the slightest ray of sun would turn it red. Her large sun-hat shadowed her face and she wore a long yellow dress with a white cotton shirt. A laugh escaped from her pink mouth and James couldn’t help, but to think how beautiful she looked. The man wore a white short-sleeved button up shirt with khaki shorts. He had blonde hair with blue eyes that were hidden behind a pair of sporty sunglasses. They looked good together.

“I don’t know why people lie.” James answered with genuine honesty.
The little boy kept his gaze on the couple.
“I think people lie because they are scared. They are scared of the real answer. The...”

James looked at the boy who couldn’t seem to find the right word as his eyebrows began to gather towards the center. But he knew what it was, and he was right.

“Truth.” James said, finishing it for him. “We are scared of the truth.”

The little boy returned his attention back to James with a smile and a nod. “But I am not. I am not scared. I don’t want the lie. I want the...” he paused for a second to recall the word, “...truth.”

James looked at the little boy whose eyes were wide with innocence that wanted so badly to be believed.

“Can you tell me the truth?” he asked.

James looked back over to the couple. The woman was now waving her arms in the air as she screamed “Nolan!” in a voice that sounded so sweet to his ears. Returning his gaze, he stared into Nolan’s cerulean blue eyes that looked at him with hope. They reminded him of his own blue eyes when he was a child.

“Yes.” he replied, but how could he? Especially when that was a lie within itself.

Something Sweet

It is hot, scorching actually. I can feel each grain of sand burning the thick soles of my feet, but I dig them into the ground, where the cooler ones soothe it. My toes wiggle, shifting some of the sand and peeking through the little hill that had formed a top them. I could see the blue polish on them, still fresh like the summer sky. My shoulders begin to relax under the thin cotton blouse as I lean back into the wooden chair, face protected from the hot sun with a grand straw hat. The smell of the ocean breeze I inhale - salty, warm, and surprisingly refreshing.


The shifting of melting ice cubes resonate from my right as Maddie grabs a bottle of cold beer.
"Hey Ladies, anyone want a bottle too?" she asks to the three of us.
"Yeah girl! Toss one over here!" Daisy demands as Maddie grabs one by the neck and tosses it to her.
"Water please!" Piper sings from my left side. Maddie hands her a cold bottle and I am glad when I feel the cool drops of condensation on my belly as the bottle hovers over me briefly.
"What about you, Jenna?"


I look over at the light skinned beauty before me. She had gorgeous long hair that shined golden in the sun. Her yellow summer dress hung loosely on her tiny figure and her large sunglasses covered a majority of her face. She was a summer babe. A gorgeous, silver ring with diamond studs embedded within it had made its home on her left hand and I knew she was happy. She was complete.


Behind her I could see Daisy, her black hair kissed by the sun and skin beginning to tan a slight bit after being out here for the past hour. For a mother of 3, she still looked wonderous and youthful. I could hear her spouting comments of honest and genuine disapproval at the teenagers walking by and I suppress a laugh. This was a vacation she needed.


I hear a soft giggle to my right and I smile as I turn my head to her. Her hair is chestnut brown and she has slimmed down since the last time I saw her. Piper smiles. She always smiles. Even through all the pain and suffering, she smiles. She excretes emotion and care. Ambition and dreams exists for her. Even her love life was blossoming. Sometimes I envy her. But I know that this is the reason she is in my life.


These are the reason they are all in my life: the ears and advice of a great listener, the honesty of blunt mouth, and the addictive laughter of a beautiful heart. The bitterness towards life growing in my heart and the tangy sensation of fear from failures pull on my thoughts. I need them. I need this. I needed something sweet.


"Hellllooo?"
My attention is returned to Maddie, who is still waiting for my answer, her eyebrows raised. I give her a small smile.


"Beer, please." I say.
Returning my gaze to the view of glistening ocean in front of me.
"Oh, and something sweet."

For Giggles (again)

Since she was upset by the lack of romance in "Snow White and the Huntsman." Not gonna lie, I was hoping for another kiss or a hug or a public wedding. Nothing epic.

Anyway, here's an Epilogue for you, Miss Giggles. Enjoy!

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“Your Majesty.” She was sitting on the grass under the apple tree, her hands in her lap, watching the pup he’d brought her play with an old slipper. He was happy that she was peaceful, and felt blessed when she looked up and smiled at him.

“Huntsman.” There it was – the little light in her face he’d first noticed on her coronation day. He shuffled and bowed as she rose and came to greet him. She was barefoot, and her feet, like the rest of her, were small, delicate, and white. Snow White. She was Queen now. Never his…

“Huntsman, where have you been hiding yourself? I haven’t seen you for a fortnight.”

“I’m sorry, my lady. There was something I needed…needed to see to.”

Her smile became quizzical, but it never lost its brilliance. “Of course. You’re free to come and go as you choose. You aren’t my servant, but my friend.” She was always making little gestures like that these days; he wrote it off as her happiness, and tried not to read more into her hand on his arm or her smile during dinner. This time however, when he tried to step away, she tightened her grip and stepped with him. “Huntsman…why do you never call me by name?”

“You’re Queen now, my lady.”

She waved her hand dismissively, less a monarch than the stubborn girl who’d threatened him with his own dagger in the Dark Forest. “But before that even, you never called me by name…”

He had, though only in his mind. A pale face, a limp body in the snow, a dark shadow bent over her… It gave him nightmares, to match those of his wife’s death. He forced the memories aside and focused on her sharp face. Her eyes were very clear in the spring light. The puppy roamed at their feet, tugging on the hem of her skirt and sniffing his boots. “You were a Princess. I am a huntsman.” And a drunkard. A wastrel. He thought it every time he saw her walking with William, or dancing with another man at a festival. He kept hoping it would keep the jealousy down; he must have succeeded, for no one had come to warn him that a Queen didn’t marry whom she chose, but whom her advisors and her subjects chose.

She stepped into him and he stiffened, automatically moving to grasp her shoulders and push her back. Proximity was dangerous. And lead me not into temptation… She was temptation, same as the ripe apples she gathered herself and shared with all the castle and village people.

“Will you not say my name, dear friend? Please?”

His hands closed around her shoulders, delicate wings of bone under his rough and dirty fingers. Though childlike she had an uncommon strand of strength in her, like tempered steel. Those were the images he had in his heart: the white gown she’d worn on her deathbed, and the steel armor she’d won her kingdom in. The woman and the warrior.

“My lady, this isn’t a good idea…”

“I think it is.” Her hand was cool, her fingers light as wind against his mouth. She looked at him, not quite smiling, not quite frowning, and he wasn’t aware of shifting his stance from combative to protective. “Please, sometimes with all the ceremony, I just want to be who I was with you, before.”  

“Snow White.”

The country lauded her for saving them from Ravenna, but he lauded her for moments like this, when her eyes were clear and she was able to smile like she’d never known sorrow. He didn’t think; he didn’t make a conscious choice. As much as their other kiss had been love and farewell, so was this one love and welcoming.

She kept her eyes open, one hand curling in his dirty shirt. Over his heart. She looked for his soul, as he’d taught her, and he felt slain and reborn when she relaxed and dropped her head to his chest.

“I never thanked you, for saving me.”

The ends of her hair tickled his fingers and he played with it, just a little. Just to please himself. “I don’t need thanks.”

“Why do you say things like that? Aren’t you as deserving of appreciation and affection as anyone? You have done more noble things than I, yet I’m revered and you are forgotten.”

“I wouldn’t want your status,” he said without thinking. “I’m a simple man at heart, my lady. Nobility is for the rich and powerful.”

“You are noble, Huntsman. You refused Ravenna –”

“Out of stupidity.”

“– and you rescued me. Repeatedly.”

“Taught you to rescue yourself, which you did in the end,” he corrected her. Her laughter was unexpected, and for a moment he basked in the pleasure it brought him as another might bask in a sunbeam.

“Yes, I suppose so. But not without you.” Her laughter turned into a charming little grin. “Will you tell me your name, Huntsman? I should like to use it.”

He hadn’t used his name for years; first out of grief and then out of habit. She was waiting, so patient, so gentle, and he couldn’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t tell her. He didn’t have far to bend to speak in her ear; she shivered at his warm breath on her neck. 

She listened, lashes lowered to hide her expression, then tipped her head towards him and smiled. “Thank you.” And this time when she kissed him, neither of them stepped away even when apple blossoms fell on their heads and her pup tore the hem of her gown.

thoughts on a page

right. this is a very sad story (i apologize) but it was definitely good for me to write it. it's also an older story (from last fall) so if it sounds a little different than my usual style, that's why. :) hahaha, it's also a little long. oh well. enjoy! WolfGrrl

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I want to start off by saying I didn’t really know her; we had a class together (in one of those big lecture halls, where no one knows anyone else) and I saw her around campus or on the bus sometimes. But the first thing I noticed about her was her smile. It was brittle, easily broken. Like a superficial shield to keep the world away. She wielded it continually in social settings; in fact, every time I saw her she was smiling that broken-glass smile and it cut something in me, even though I didn’t know who she was or why she needed that shield of normalcy.

She came and went in my field of view, and I forgot about her in the rush of life and everyday responsibilities. But I didn’t forget her smile, and maybe that was why when my friend Annabeth started to smile that way it rang a bell, dimly, in the back of my mind.

Annabeth already had enough “issues” to last a lifetime. But somehow I’d never noticed that she wasn’t always around or she wasn’t always as…engaged as the rest of us when we talked and laughed and ribbed each other. In fact, I didn’t notice that she’d been growing quieter and quieter and smaller and smaller until I noticed her smile, and if it hadn’t been for that other unnamed girl I wouldn’t even have noticed that. So I asked her about it one day when we were studying in the lounge, waiting for our mutual friend David to get back with the pizza. 

“Hey Anna, is everything OK?”

“Sure.” She looked at me like I was crazy, and maybe I was because when I met her gaze I felt like I was looking at two people: one who thought I was crazy and one who was begging me for…something. Something important. The dichotomy in her eyes made me uneasy, and I let the subject drop.

The semester passed, and it was almost Thanksgiving when Annabeth suddenly went missing. We had French together and one day she didn’t show up for class. Annabeth was always in class and always on time – I was the one who would forget to set his alarm (or sleep through it). But Annabeth was obsessive about things like that, and so it was a shock when she wasn’t there to learn about irregular verbs in the past tense. 

I texted her and considered my duty done, but at dinner I still hadn’t heard back and her friend Pam had called me, wanting to know where Anna was. That was when I realized she was missing, and for some reason I pictured her smile, and then that other girl’s smile. The two images hovered in my mind all night, making it impossible to sleep. So I was awake earlier than usual the next morning, and I heard my cell when it rang.

“Anna’s in the hospital.” I could barely understand Pam she was crying so hard. “They said…they said she’s anorexic and that they’re putting her in that program for really sick people – the one where they force you to eat and you can’t see your friends or go home…” She rambled on incoherently, but it didn’t matter because I’d stopped listening even though I still had my cell pressed to my ear.

Anorexic. But she couldn’t be, could she? Suddenly feeling chilled I tried to draw an image of Anna in my mind but I couldn’t. I knew her – she was a friend, we had class together three times a week – but I couldn’t picture her at all. All I could see was her smile, that damned, brittle smile, and with the image came the memory of that moment when I asked her if she was OK and she said yes, but her eyes said no.

No, I realized with growing horror and shame. She hadn’t said yes. She’d said “Sure” and anyone who has lied to their parents knows that there’s a big difference between “yes” and “sure.” I hung up on Pam without bothering to say goodbye and sat down on my bed, feeling like there was a Chevy parked on my chest.

Annabeth died. They tried to save her; from what little news I got from Pam (who got it from Anna’s brother) they tried really hard to save her, doing all kinds of scary, crazy shit to keep her alive. But she’d gone too far for them to pull her back and she died. I took my last exam on the thirteenth of December and then flew down to Wilmington, North Carolina to attend the funeral. It was a cold, sunny day with a stiff breeze, and everyone’s faces were red and numbed from the cold. I felt numb in more than just my hands and my nose though; I was numb inside, hit hard by the idea that someone I thought I knew so well could be someone I didn’t know at all.

Worst of all were the what-ifs: they plagued me at odd moments, and especially at night. I’d lie in bed and try to remember every moment we’d spent together (which was weird in and of itself, since I hadn’t thought of Anna as anything more than a friend) so I could analyze them. But I knew even from the handful of memories I was able to collect that it was a pointless exercise. I’d never before realized how superficial all my relationships were; Annabeth was someone I saw almost every day and talked to nearly as often, but she’d managed to keep something so huge from me without any effort at all. A smile. That was all I had to remember, even though I was haunted by the ghosts of all the things I hadn’t done and didn’t know. A damned, brittle, broken-glass smile and a glance where “sure” was very far from “yes, I’m fine.”

I don’t know what happened to that other girl – the girl with the original smile. When I went back to school in January I had a different schedule, and I hoped when I didn’t see her that maybe she did too. But I rode the same bus, and the weeks passed and she never came.

Not knowing meant I could give her a happy ending if I wanted to; I could fashion a fantasy where they had caught her illness in time and saved her. But not knowing also meant that I didn’t know for certain. Annabeth’s funeral, painful as was, had provided closure. With that other girl – the unnamed girl, the original girl – I was haunted by a different set of what-ifs. It was no longer the “what if I’d noticed in time?” and “what if I’d said something or pressed harder to get her to share?” that ran around in my head when I crashed at two AM, jittery from caffeine or buzzed from a night out.  My what-ifs had grown up and grown teeth, and they gnawed at more than just my social conscience; after all, I’d known Anna personally, and I had no idea who this girl was. But over time her ghost became more real to me than Anna’s, and it was her ghost who prompted me to step up when I saw that smile on my brother’s girlfriend’s face four years later.

Liz wasn’t like Annabeth; her smile covered something different. But it was the same code, the same silent scream for help under the veneer of “I’m OK.” I don’t know how much I helped Liz, but I do know that I felt better when I reached out to her, and not just better in the immediate, short-term sense. 

I graduated from college, went to grad school, got my doctorate. I bet you think I’m a counselor or a doctor or a therapist, because of what I’ve told you. I will tell you that I see that broken-glass smile every day, sometimes multiple times a day, on the faces of the individuals that pass through my room. I see an Annabeth or a Liz hundreds of times a year, for a hundred different reasons and at a hundred different intensities. And standing beside me, unseen and unremarkable, is that first girl who will always wear the brittle, broken-glass smile in my memory. My ghost girl, who looks at me and, without me ever having known her, pushes me to reach out to the people behind those smiles and keep them from becoming ghosts themselves.